


Define "Dating"

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Series: Would a date by any other name be as infuriating? [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 2 gay 2 function, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras POV, Get-Together Fic, Happy Ending, M/M, but jehan makes up for it in sheer awesomeness, enjolras x grantaire, enjoltaire - Freeform, exr - Freeform, it's already longer than planned, many dates, oblivious!Grantaire, obvious!enjolras, opposite of fake dating AU, so many dates, they're just so dumb, this had the potential of running on so long, trying to date and failing AU, two gay idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 16:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15123407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Enjolras is trying to take Grantaire out on a date, honest.Warnings: drinking mentions (but no abuse), reference to getting high (once, no specifics given), a little language





	Define "Dating"

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Определи Термин "Встречаться"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16253984) by [heavenlygift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenlygift/pseuds/heavenlygift)



“Never have I ever…dated a woman!”

There are groans throughout the room.

“Enj, I see you: take a drink,” a rowdier-than-usual Jehan cajoles.

Enjolras scowls. “Does it really count as ‘dating’ if both parties aren’t informed and consenting?”

Courfeyrac snorts. “What does that even mean? Have you dated someone without knowing you were dating them before?”

Enjolras’s prepared answer is cut off from across the room. 

“Twice!” calls Combeferre. 

Traitor.

“Twice?? How does that even happen?” goads Feuilly.

Enjolras sighs. “The first time, we were dating. Just some guy from a class. We went out a couple of times, it wasn’t that great, I told him I wasn’t interested in hanging out anymore.”

“Oh no no no, that is not what you told me,” says Combeferre. A Combeferre with a couple of beers in him is a dangerous thing. “You told me, that you told him, that you would be really busy for a while. That he was really nice. That he could still text you and you could still hang out sometimes outside of class, but you probably wouldn’t prioritize it over your work.” 

“So…” Jehan appears to be trying to piece it together.

“So Enjolras broke up with him so gently that he didn’t even realize that it was over!” laughs Courf, slapping his knee as others join in.

“Oh my God, Enjolras,” gasps Éponine. “Jesus Christ, how have you made it this far in life?”

“Great effort and determination,” offers Combeferre solemnly, and Enjolras quietly promises himself to get back at him someday.

“To great effort and determination,” toasts Feuilly, and everyone raises their assorted beverage containers to it. 

“And the girl?” Jehan asks after everyone has taken their drinks.

“Oh my God, the girl. How was I to know that going to the library, a coffee shop, and a football game constituted as ‘dates’?”

“Oh man, can I guess this time?” Enjolras looks over to Grantaire, draped dramatically across a beanbag chair in the corner of the room. “You only found out when she tried to kiss you?”

“Worse!” Combeferre was going to deserve every bit of what Enjolras would eventually serve up to him. “He found out when she dumped him!”

“What the shit, Enjolras. Didn’t even get a kiss in? After at least three dates?” Bahorel shakes his head in disbelief. 

Enjolras, frustrated, downs half of his bottle of water. “I didn’t even want to be dating her! I didn’t even know we were dating! Dating is kind of a mutual thing, a two-way street. One person can’t decide it alone, all involved parties need to be on the same page!” He finally assents to a sip of his beer, and God does it taste awful. He looks longingly at Éponine and Jehan’s brightly colored mixed drinks. “Honestly, there should be a checking-in phase of every relationship, where you just make sure you’re all on the same page.”

“Here, here,” says Éponine, and everyone takes it as a signal to take another drink.

“In the spirit of the occasion,” announces Bahorel. “Never have I ever taken a person out on a date, without them knowing it was a date.

Enjolras makes an attempt at a casual sip of his drink, but all eyes are on him, no one else moving.

“Oh-ho, so Mr. Checking-In Phase is too good to check in on his own dates?” teases Éponine.

“Hey now, that’s not fair Ép,” declares Grantaire, and Enjolras knows that Grantaire correcting Éponine does not equivalate with Grantaire defending Enjolras. “I think we all need to remember that this is someone who literally broke up with someone so subtly that they had no idea for weeks and still probably hasn’t had the nerve to tell that poor girl that they were never really dating.”

Enjolras determinedly does not make eye-contact with anyone.

“Enjolraaaaaaaas,” groans Courfeyrac good-naturedly.

“So Enj, tell us about this not-date with this not-woman,” goads Éponine. 

“S’not much to tell.” Not to anyone in this room, anyway. “We went out, he didn’t really seem to be having a good time. We ran into some friends, and he seemed to enjoy himself a lot more with them. No harm, no foul.” He took another sip of his beer, the taste finally starting to grow on him.

He had thought that asking Grantaire to go to a theme park with him had been obvious, especially a theme park that he had heard Grantaire expressing in beforehand. When they arrived, though, Grantaire had seemed confused that it was only him, had barely spoken to him, and seemed as relieved as Enjolras felt to see Bossuet and Joly run at full-speed toward them an hour later. Enjolras feels his cheeks redden at the embarrassment of the effort and hopes the others attribute it to drink.

“Well shit Buddy, that sucks,” Bahorel offers, and again everyone takes an unprompted sip.

“Now that it’s my turn,” Grantaire announces, scrambling up from his beanbag chair and holding his beer high in the air. “Never have I ever rollerbladed backwards down a hallway on my way to the kitchen.”

Several shouts of protest and calls for judgment of specific scenarios go up, but Enjolras sees at least three people take uncontested drinks.

\---

Dates. Direct. Right. Enjolras can do this.

Enjolras gives speeches at rallies. He triumphs for the rights of man. He plans to defend people in the court of law. He has been known to punch officers in the face under the right circumstances.

The difference, of course, being that none of these things require Enjolras to be emotionally vulnerable.

Enjolras looked online for date ideas until late the previous night and has them all written down. This is ridiculous, he tells himself, but he can already feel his chest tightening and color rising in his cheeks as he pulls out his phone.

He starts and erases the text four times before it feels right—well, acceptable anyway.

He stares at the phone, willing it to respond as dread and unease fill his stomach. He starts doubting his selection: a café, really? They go to the Musain every Tuesday and Thursday for meetings. It’s hardly remarkable, hardly suitable for a date. In truth, this is why he chose it: playing it safe, keeping it casual and close to the chest, but as he waits for a response he regrets the decision. 

When he looks at the time, he feels foolish for waiting: it’s barely 7 in the morning, Grantaire would only have gotten back from his bartending job a couple of hours ago. He tries to busy himself, cleaning his room and organizing his things to go out and get some work done, but his mind is distracted, and by the time he’s been sitting in the library in front of his laptop for two hours, he’s barely written more than what he had when he arrived.

At last, his phone vibrates, and he nearly jumps to grab at it.

It’s Ferre. _How much am I going to regret last night?_

_That is yet to be determined._

_Looking forward to it._

Enjolras smiles at the dry humor and finally feels relaxed enough to settle back into his paper. 

When a text finally comes again three hours later, Enjolras has finished one paper and has moved onto a speech. 

_Sure. 4:00 ok?_

_4:00 sounds perfect_

\---

Enjolras tries not to fidget at the table. He has some talking points listed on a napkin in front of him, scribbled down when he arrived at the Musain at 3:45, twenty minutes ago. He takes a deep breath and stands up to order another spiced apple cider when he sees him.

Grantaire apparently has just come from busking, guitar case hung across his back and hair wild from the wind. He approaches a table with a crooked smile. 

“Sorry,” he says, sounding slightly out of breath. Had Grantaire run here?

“No problem. Why don’t you tell me what you want, and I’ll order it for you while I get my refill?”

Grantaire lets out a relieved huff of air and holds a reusable container with a metal straw threaded through the lid out to Enjolras. “They should know the order when they see this, just ask for a refill.” 

Enjolras knows he should be taking it, but he just stares. When had he started carrying a reusable cup and straw? Enjolras had been talking about it for months, until he was blue in the face, and Grantaire had argued with him at every turn over their futility (“They’re just a fashion statement until green stops being popular, the production requires more energy and resources than the number of cups the average person saves by using them”). What’s more, the design is beautiful: Enjolras doesn’t know the artist or style, but he knows it is famous, dabs of colors instead of smooth fills, bright and floral.

“Uh, is that okay? I can get it myself, too.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, that’s fine. That’s great.” Enjolras grabs the cup and goes to the counter, a knowing smile on the barista’s face as soon as she sees Grantaire’s cup.

Enjolras returns to the table empty-handed. “So. When did you get the cup?”

Grantaire laughs. “I knew you’d bring that up. Birthday present from Jehan.”

“Birthday?” The panic must have shown on Enjolras’s face, because Grantaire chuckles.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t miss mine: Jehan likes to give others presents for their birthday. You don’t remember?”

Truthfully, he had not. Jehan always told him that they had donated to some organizations in his name around their birthday, but Enjolras had never put two and two together to realize that that’s what they were doing.

“It’s beautiful.” 

Grantaire looks bashful. “Oh, uh. Thanks. It didn’t take long.”

“Wait, you did that?” Enjolras thinks back to how it felt in his hand, internally facepalming himself for not connecting the painted texture he had felt under his fingers with Grantaire’s many hobbies.

“Yeah, well.” Enjolras decides it’s been long enough since he came in that the pink on Grantaire’s cheeks probably isn’t from the cold or running. “I had a free afternoon, and it makes it a lot harder for people to claim as their own while I’m playing.”

Enjolras turns the words over in his head. It all makes much more sense than the half-second thought that had initially struck him, that Grantaire had gotten it because of what he had said. 

The conversation has come to a standstill, and Enjolras is grateful when the barista stops by to put down their drinks.

“The regular for R,” she smiles, placing down the masterpiece, "and an apple cider for the gentleman.”

“Marie, what would I ever do without you?” praises R, grabbing one of her hands with both of his and looking at her with real veneration in his eyes. His expression shifts into something more sly as he says, “I may even ignore that you insinuated that I am ever anything less than a gentleman,” and she laughs at that.

Enjolras sighs wistfully at the scene, ignoring the slight envy tugging at his heart. There are many amazing things about Grantaire, but the one that Enjolras admires the most is his ability to get on with seemingly anyone who is not Enjolras. Being personable, bringing an easy smile to almost anyone, just seems to come naturally to Grantaire in a way that Enjolras cannot even begin to fathom. He smiles over it as he takes his first sip of cider from the mug, letting the warmth and spices roll over his tongue.

“So, what exactly does ‘your regular’ entail?”

“House secret,” smiles Grantaire mischievously. “Perks of having a distinguishable cup.”

“Oh, come now, what is it?”

“Between me and the Musain staff, that’s what,” he teases.

Enjolras takes another sip of his cider. “Irish?” 

Enjolras knows it’s a mistake as soon as the word escapes his mouth: Grantaire’s face is still in the same grin, but it no longer meets his eyes, and judging from how he takes his next sip the easygoing conversation that they had before is over.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Nah, it’s okay. I mean, that’s who I am, right?” Grantaire tries for a shrug that misses nonchalant by a mile. “Anyway, you asked me here for something, right? Whaddya need?”

Enjolras weighs his options. It feels underhanded, having Grantaire already be here without knowing that it was under the pretense of a date. “Yeah, um. I was wondering if you might take a look at this speech for me? Tear it apart a little bit, tell me its weak spots.”

This is comfortable. This is familiar. Grantaire seems back to his easy, cocky self by the time Enjolras has his laptop out and opened to the document.

“Oh man, how much time do I have?”

\---

Enjolras is at an apple orchard. 

Enjolras’s grandmother’s birthday actually is tomorrow, and he actually does bake her an apple pie every year, usually with help from an extremely cautious Joly and an extremely patient Jehan who always seem to end up at each others’ throats over what Jehan chooses to refer to as “philosophical differences over the nature of a recipe.” He just…elects to handpick the apples this year. And to recruit other volunteers.

Other volunteers who happen to be Grantaire.

Grantaire is already there when Enjolras pulls up, head recovered from his helmet hair and his steaming Mystery Cup in hand.

“So, how long before the others get here?” asks Grantaire, taking a swig and fighting a spectacular battle with a grimace. Enjolras suspects that his Art-Cup does not contain his regular today.

“No one else was able to make it,” Enjolras lies. He had never said anything to indicate that others were invited, but he was prepared for Grantaire’s expectation anyway. “Shall we get started?”

Grantaire seems to take a moment to understand what Enjolras has said, and by the time that he catches up Enjolras is already examining some low-hanging yellow apples with fake interest. He has no idea what he’s doing.

“You’re picking these for baking, right?” Grantaire hazards, as if Enjolras didn’t debrief on the whole plan the day before. “You do not want these,” he assures, lifting Enjolras’s hand from the apple. Enjolras tells himself he is unaffected. Enjolras is a terrible liar.

“Well then, since you seem to be the expert, please lead the way.”

They wander down the row, Grantaire stopping every once in a while to take pictures of especially gruesome or interestingly-shaped trees “for inspiration.” They don’t talk much, and Enjolras debates calling Grantaire on his bluff.

“Here’s what you want,” Grantaire says at last. The tree looks very similar to all of the others that they’ve passed, and Enjolras nearly says as much, but Grantaire continues. “These are baking apples. Those yellow one you were looking at would be way too sweet for a pie. These are much more tart, and when you start cooking them the sweetness will come out on its own and become more concentrated.” 

He tosses Enjolras an apple to taste, and Enjolras is momentarily very grateful that he was watching Grantaire so closely and that Grantaire seems to have good aim, because he’s able to catch it with the smallest motion of his arm. He examines the apple, feeling it through his faux-leather gloves before taking a bite. 

Grantaire is right: it’s tart, far too tart to eat on its own, but given how much sugar is in the recipe he has saved to his phone “tart” is probably exactly what he should be looking for.

“Great,” he says. “So let’s get enough of these for two pies, then fill the rest with more conventionally edible apples.”

“‘Conventionally edible,’” says Grantaire, shaking his head. “I don’t know a single other person who talks the way you do. You’re like a sexy textbook.”

“Combeferre talks like that,” Enjolras corrects, trying to ignore the way hearing Grantaire call him “sexy” makes him feel.

“I know a single other person who talks the way you do,” he generously amends. “And he’s only a moderately sexy—albeit significantly more comprehensive—textbook.”

“Says the only person I know who answers a source request by asking for a citation style. Since we’re on the topic of ‘sexy textbooks.’” Enjolras is only repeating Grantaire’s label, he reminds himself, pointedly glancing at Grantaire’s face to gauge his reaction and not at his old leather jacket, flannel, overly tight white tee, or well-fitted jeans.

Grantaire’s mouth opens, then shuts. At last he says, “Well shit, we’ve got a lot of backgrounds in the room, and everyone’s got a preference. Besides, the style someone chooses is very telling of who they are as a person.”

“Oh?”

“Truly.”

“For example?”

“Well,” Grantaire drawls, “if anyone ever asks for MLA, you don’t need them in your life. Plain and simple.”

Enjolras laughs and decides that maybe today’s date will be fine.

\---

Today’s date is absolutely not fine. Upon looking at the recipe that Enjolras had arbitrarily chosen from the depths of the interwebs, Grantaire had laughed and announced that they were going grocery shopping. Enjolras makes a mental note to never try to go on a date with Grantaire that ever involves decisions. Or shopping. Or grocery stores. Or any sort of critical examination of the contents of his kitchen.

“How do you not have cinnamon sticks? You even knew you were making pie today, and you just didn’t have cinnamon sticks??” Truthfully, Enjolras has never seen a cinnamon stick outside of December, and he had no idea that they were actually related to cinnamon beyond name, but Enjolras has no intentions of giving Grantaire that satisfaction.

“What’s wrong with normal cinnamon?”

“‘What’s wrong with normal cinnamon,’ do you even hear yourself? Ground cinnamon is for sprinkling on top of a product in its end stages. We are boiling apples and infusing flavors! Cinnamon sticks are the only true option!” Grantaire throws a bottle of cinnamon sticks into the cart, and Enjolras is having a hard time understanding how all of these products are going to be reduced to only two pies.

“Do you at least have some cooking wine?”

At last, something that Enjolras can attest honestly to having. “Yes, I have cooking wine,” he says, probably sounding a little too relieved.

“Color?”

“Uh…red?”

“Do you have any white wine in your house?”

“Um…” Enjolras doesn’t really like white wine, and Combeferre’s seems too nice to use for cooking.

“I’m taking that as a ‘no.’ Come, let’s find the eight dollar-iest bottle of white we can find in this fine establishment.”

“Wait,” Enjolras says, and he’s worried he’ll regret it. “Do we really need to cook with wine?”

Grantaire sighs. “Enjolras, I want you to search your memories. Think real hard about this one. This is for your grandmother, right? Good ol’ Grandma Enjolras?”

She’s his maternal grandmother, but he lets that slide.

“You’re about as French as it gets without going to Paris itself, so I’m going to assume that she is natively French. Does this sound about correct?” 

Enjolras nods.

“I don’t know a lot about France.” This is a lie, but Enjolras allows Grantaire to continue. “But there’s a couple of things I know that the French do really well: adopting a lot of constitutions in a 250-year period. Surrendering. Protesting. Not acquiescing to the demands of public transport employees. Churning out famously verbose novels. Cooking. Bread. Cheese. Wine. Does this sound about right?”

Enjolras wants to protest, but in the interest of not proving Grantaire correct he simply nods again.

“Has your grandma ever, ever, eaten a second slice of the pie you bring?”

Enjolras thinks carefully. Truth be told, for the last few years she’s had reasons that she couldn’t eat pie, and last year the pie hadn’t even been sliced by the time the party ended and he’d left. “No,” he says slowly.

“Let’s just try this out once, shall we?”

Enjolras groans, chagrined, and after deliberating on the nature of “eight dollar-iest” bottles of wine, they finally select one.

\---

It is very difficult to argue with someone over cooking when there is no written recipe to argue over, but Enjolras is doing a stupendous job, he thinks with a grimace.

Grantaire will not allow Enjolras to help with anything involving the filling, and as the smells waft from the stove to his section of counter, he has to begrudging accept that Grantaire seems to know what he’s doing.

Enjolras, on the other hand, is still puzzling through the nonsensical steps that Grantaire has given him. Why on earth would he want hard butter and cold water for his crust? That just makes it that much harder to get a smooth consistency. After the second time Grantaire catches him trying to swap the butter and water out for more temperature-appropriate versions, he decides that he will do it Grantaire’s way, just to prove that it doesn’t work. 

In the meantime, the muscles in his hands and shoulders are not thanking him. 

He finally rolls out four circles, pressing two into the bottoms of the pie dishes that Enjolras has.

“Okay,” says Grantaire from behind him, and his breath feels suspiciously close on his neck. Enjolras briefly considers leaning back to test the distance. “The crust thickness looks good, why don’t you cut those other two into strips for the lattice?”

Enjolras understands the individual words that Grantaire has spoken. “Cut the what?” Enjolras turns, and wow, Grantaire is close.

“Lattice,” he repeats, taking a step back. “Y’know, the criss-crossy design that every apple pie ever has?” Now that Enjolras considers it, he supposes that this is true. “Here, how about I do one, just to show you how, and you do the other.”

Enjolras is grateful that Grantaire offers, because he never would have figured this out on his own. It’s basically weaving, but with dough. Cold, stiff dough. When he finishes, it’s clear which is Grantaire’s and which is his own: he’s gone over a couple of places he should have gone under, and the ends are incredibly uneven, but altogether it’s better than he would have thought he could do when he woke up this morning, and Grantaire is beaming at his work.

“Great, it’s perfect!” Grantaire exclaims, and Enjolras is relieved that Grantaire is kind enough not to point out the true state of the dough. Grantaire is back at stirring the frankly heavenly mixture on the stove and decides, “Okay, I think it’s about done. Can you move those pie dishes over here?”

Enjolras does as he’s told to the apparent surprise of Grantaire, placing each on the pre-positioned hot pads. Grantaire spoons the aromatic apple mixture evenly into both dishes. Enjolras is already grabbing dish towels and oven mitts for the pies’ next move.

Both move the hot dishes to where the lattices sit ready. Enjolras is aware that he is crimping the edges much more slowly than necessary, but he wants to make sure they’re just right. This is always his favorite part of the pie. When he final looks up, Grantaire is watching him—not impatiently, but with a small smile that is startled off of him when Enjolras asks what he’s looking at.

“Nothing,” he responds. He brushes hot butter that Enjolras doesn’t remember seeing prepared over the lattices and sprinkles some sugar over it, then the two move both pies into the preheated oven, a tray underneath the dishes to catch any overflow. “Aaaaand timer is set,” says Grantaire, wiping his forehead with an exposed forearm. He had taken the jacket off when he stepped in, but the flannel was still on with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Enjolras drags his eyes away from them with considerable effort.

“So what do you want to do for the next,” Enjolras peers at the timer, “two hours?”

“I’ve actually got to get going,” says Grantaire. “Things to see, people to do, you know how it goes.” 

Enjolras’s stomach drops. “I was hoping you might take one of the pies off of my hands.”

“Oh man, that’d be great,” says Grantaire with real enthusiasm. “Can I send Joly or Bossuet over to get it?” Grantaire pauses a moment, face contorting. “On second thought, definitely Joly.”

“Yeah, that’d be fine.” Grantaire pulls on his jacket the rest of the way. “Um, my grandmother’s birthday is tomorrow.”

“Oh sweet, be sure to pass on my well-wishes!”

“Combeferre usually goes with me, but he has plans.” Plans which involve a scavenger hunt with his motorcycle and the contents of his toolkit. “Do you think you’d want to come?”

Grantaire looks surprised for a moment, then laughs. “As much as I would love to meet the matriarch of the Enjolras clan and all of the other various Enjolrai, I’m pretty busy tomorrow. Plus,” he adds with an embarrassed grin, “I’m not sure I’m made of quite the right stuff to bump elbows with your family.” 

Enjolras wants to argue with him about almost every comment he made, but the door is already open. “Ah. Well, maybe some other time.”

“Maybe,” Grantaire nods. “I’ll text you when Joly’s on his way!”

\---

His grandmother eats three slices.

\---

And so it continues: movie theater date. Classical concert. Open mic night. Football game. Stargazing. 

Enjolras leans his head on Grantaire’s shoulder during a movie night in. When they go camping, they lay next to each other and fall asleep holding hands and curled toward each other for warmth. The Musain now knows Enjolras’s name and order, and more often than not they wait patiently for him to produce R’s Art-Cup for his regular as well. 

And yet, Grantaire still doesn’t seem to realize. At the diner they eat at on Thursdays before ABC meetings, a waitress refers to Enjolras as Grantaire’s boyfriend, and after Enjolras doesn’t correct her and she leaves, Grantaire asks if it doesn’t bother him.

“Nah, not particularly.”

“Okay.”

When the librarian asks how long they’ve been dating, Grantaire lets her know that they’re not together, and the librarian apologizes.

When they go to late-night bowling (Enjolras hates bowling, but Grantaire plays like an old pro), the older couple next to them coos as Grantaire helps correct Enjolras’s form:

“Aw, do you remember when we were like that?” Enjolras was already flush from Grantaire’s touch, but Grantaire suddenly steps away, and Enjolras sees that he is blushing as well. 

“Ah, sorry about that, I’ll let you do your own thing,” apologizes Grantaire. Enjolras rolls a gutterball. 

“Jehan, I just don’t know what to do,” Enjolras says, laid out on Jehan extremely comfy couch.

Jehan sips a fruity mixed drink from a curly straw, paper umbrella in place. They are perched on a swivel chair at their breakfast bar with their legs crossed, looking at Enjolras across the room through green sparkly cat-eye sunglasses with a purple feather boa around their neck. It is 2 in the afternoon. Enjolras can’t decide if he’s jealous or not.  
“I see.” Another sip. “I don’t suppose you’ve tried informing him that these are dates yet?”

“I have! I mean, kind of.” Jehan's face is unreadable. "That is to say, no, not really."

An extremely long sip. The drink has almost been drained from the cup entirely, and Enjolras worries that he may have to sit through Jehan making another. If he does, he intends to ask for one of his own.

“I see. Well,” Jehan says, hopping off of the chair. Enjolras wonders vaguely if Jehan normally spends their Monday afternoons sitting around alone in feather boas and sunglasses. “Here is what I want you to do.” They scribble onto a piece of paper with a pen that has an enormous fabric flower attached to the end. Jehan has many stacks of paper and designated pens like this lying around their apartment. “I want you to read this to him before the next time you ask him on one of your ‘not-a-date-but-actually-a-date’…things. Verbatim. Word for word. No excuses, exceptions, if’s, and’s, or but’s about it.” 

Jehan drops the paper onto Enjolras’s stomach.

“This is very—”

“Straightforward. I know. That’s because you’re both extremely dense. Loveable, wonderful, incredible, passionate, skillful. Dense. And I promise, I do this because I love both of you extremely dearly.

“Now, I have plans for today that include getting extremely high, listening to Florence and the Machine, and marking which of Pablo Neruda’s poems sound the coolest through a Darth Vader voice changer. Unless you have intentions to join me in this endeavor—and I would be sincerely delighted if you did—you have my permission to leave this place in peace.”

\---

Enjolras looks at the piece of paper again. He reminds himself of what he already knows: he can do this, Grantaire is most likely amenable, and even if he’s not he won’t be unkind about this. Enjolras closes his eyes, remembering how it felt to wake up next to Grantaire in the tent, breath mingling and one hand inexplicably wound into Grantaire’s hair.

He can do this.

It’s Friday. Enjolras wants to go ice skating with Grantaire. They can drink hot cocoa together and share the blanket that’s in the trunk of Enjolras’s car afterward. It’s reasonable.

His hands flatten out over the paper in front of him. He takes another deep breath and folds it, placing it into the breast pocket of his flannel. He looks up when he hears the bell for the Musain’s front door ring and waves as Grantaire walks over to where he already sits at their normal table, already standing up to receive Grantaire’s Art-Cup.

When he returns, Grantaire looks nervous, fingers tapping on the table and one foot nervously rocking back and forth.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just—just cold,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t look like he expects Enjolras to believe it, and Enjolras doesn’t indicate one way or the other.

“So, I was wondering—”

“Before you finish that thought,” Grantaire says, “I actually have something to ask.”

“Oh.” Enjolras really wants to ask now, before he loses his nerve again. “By all means.”

“We’ve been hanging out a lot lately, and our friends have been giving me a little hell over it. I don’t mind, and I know you don’t usually correct strangers when we hang out, but I mean…they’re your friends too. And I don’t want to be giving them the wrong impression or anything.”

Now seems as good a time as any. Enjolras’s lungs tighten and his stomach flips. He debates taking out the paper that Jehan wrote on, but Enjolras knows the words inside and out already, and looking at the paper isn’t going to change what he has to say.

“Grantaire. I would like to go ice skating with you this evening. As a date. With me taking you on this date. As my boyfriend. In a romantic and committed monogamous kind of way.” He takes a deep breath. “Does this sound acceptable to you?”

Grantaire’s face is bright red, and Enjolras finds himself softening int a smile, lungs easing.

“Ah—yes. Yes. That would be. That would be nice. Yes please, to that.”

Marie appears, looking like she would throw down their respective mug and cup if they did not contain extremely hot liquids. “Oh my God, you two are idiots,” she hisses before walking away.

“…we’ve been going on dates, haven’t we?”

“Yes. Yes we have.”

“Which one did they start being dates on?”

“The theme park?”

Grantaire spews a stream of profanity in a language that Enjolras doesn’t quite recognize. “I texted Joly and Bossuet to come that day!”

“You sabotaged your very own date?”

“I didn’t think it was supposed to be one!”

“Well you thought wrong, now, didn’t you??”

“Coming from someone who took four months to get to the point? And let me tell you, if you take four more months to break up with me like poor whathisface—"

The woman at the table next to theirs gives them a worried look, but Enjolras and Grantaire are looking into each other’s eyes with a distinct, soft fondness, and their fingers are intertwined across the table even as they bicker.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the overwhelming positive feedback on my first fic! I had work to do this weekend, buuuuuuuuuuuuut instead I spent all of my time writing. Please enjoy, and please leave comments and feedback! I also have a tumblr that you can message me at [here](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Hint: I could totally be persuaded to expand this. There's some dates I wanted to expand a lot more but decided against because it was already getting lengthy and throwing off my intended pacing, and I would not be opposed to writing some Grantaire PoV or expanding on Combeferre's fate, either.
> 
> Note: I know Jehan has some serious Courf-sass going on. They are just really supremely done with Enjolras and his unwillingness to do what needs done. I promise, they were much more gentle when Grantaire passed through.


End file.
